From the lips of Tim Leiweke, brought to us by Rich Hammond.

“…we spent more money this summer than in the history of this franchise. We always said, if we get close, we will come with our guns blazing, and we just blazed. I’m glad it’s done. I want our fans to understand that now, this is all about creating an environment to win the Cup, and that’s what Drew is going to help us do. We don’t look back. We only look forward now, and eight years is a good forward.”

He mentioned winning the cup, an old Western style gun fight and a colloquialism for smoking pot all in one sentence.

I find it interesting that Tim is the one we get the first quotes from tonight. Drew is probably asleep in his Kings covers, his Gretzky alarm clock waiting to wake him up in time for the first flight to Los Angeles. Dean is probably passed out in a puddle of urine and drool, seizing with a smirk on his exhausted face. Meehan is sleeping soundly on a bed of liquid gold and though Leiweke praises him, he can still blow me. Quisp speculated the last few days since Helene Elliott’s candid interview with Leiweke that his words likely were a prelude to what just happened. It’s like the AEG mouthpiece, often and justly maligned, came in this week as if he were a fucking Hindu deity over a battlefield and with statements that both soothed and stung, like sugar on a grapefruit, swept the combatants aside, crushed one of their faces and kissed another.

He stroked their shlongs while burning their buttholes. That probably makes little to no sense, but really, in this moment, does it matter? Do we care? Is there anything more cathartic than this very instant in your hockey life? We haven’t won a cup YET, so this victory is about as purposeful a one as we’ve ever experienced.

If you found yourself believing in the past months that Drew Doughty (god it feels good to type that name again!) is a greedy prick, you were justified and may still be right.

If you found yourself thinking that Dean Lombardi is a stubborn douche bag, you too were justified and are most certainly still right.

The point is that none of this matters. When the number 8 blasts a stupid Duck through boards and a rubber puck through a mesh of white twine, when the Crown kisses the Cup, this summer of torment will matter not one bit.

The terms are fair. 8 years is more than the Kings’ last reported offer, 7 million bucks per year is more than Anze Kopitar makes. You give a little, you get a lot.

If Drew doesn’t play up to this contract, I’ll lead the lynch mob. But I’m fresh out of rope and the fire on my torch has been smothered and replaced by a brighter one in the cockles of my heart. All of my cockles.

Drew Doughty, that prick, that god given talent, that greedy ass amazing cocky smart ass goofy looking chubby cheeked incredible to watch lovable monstrosity Ray Bourque in the making is a King for a time a third longer than he has been on this planet. No arbitration to come. No early UFA bolting to worry about. No monstrous cap hit that will stop this team from acquiring the necessary pieces to etch their names in Stanley’s history.

No games missed in this season, the season of our comeuppance.

Rejoice, rejoice. We’ve got no choice.

Need I say it?

I must.


Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to pack for Frozen Fury. See you fools in Vegas.

Rationality can wait for Sunday’s hangover.